


As the Sparks Fly Upward

by beautifullights



Series: The Light That Never Fails [2]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, Child Soldiers, Finn Deals with His Trauma, Finn feels, Finn-centric, Flashbacks, Foster Care, Found Family, Friendship, Gen, Hope, Hurt/Comfort, POV Finn (Star Wars), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Refugees, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-12 19:46:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11743905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautifullights/pseuds/beautifullights
Summary: Finn lay on the frigid sand of the Sahel and stared up at the night sky—bottomless, endless, cracked through with stars. With a quiet sigh, he fell up into the sky, tumbling head over heels into a strange new world with no walls.All he could think of was the number of notches in the barrel of his gun. The way it shook in his arms, kicking back at his shoulder until he was covered in bruises. The smooth patch on the barrel that always brought him back to earth. All he could think was—he never wanted to kill again.Ever.Again.





	1. it would be worth it

**Author's Note:**

> In order to relocate TFA to our world, I had to choose: either stay true to the plot of TFA and the ages of the characters, or accurately represent the history of conflict in our world. This is, first and foremost, a fanfic, not history; therefore, I sided with the events of TFA and moved dates of real-world conflicts to suit the story. I went as deep into the accurate history as I felt comfortable doing, in order to do as much justice as I could to Finn’s experience. However, I did not include certain potentially triggering elements and kept the tone of the story as hopeful as I could, in order to keep myself and my readers safe. 
> 
> Therefore, while I hope this fic piques your curiosity, **it is by no means a factual treatise on West African conflict in the 20th/21st centuries, nor a full portrayal of the experience of being a child soldier or a refugee.** If you’re curious, please go look it up and learn about it! I will provide more extensive and spoilery notes and sources a few chapters later ([here's](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11743905/chapters/26644971#chapter_3_endnotes) the link if you want to read it now), once we're past the more spoilery bits.
> 
> Thanks so much to StarMaple, PastAndFutureQueen, Conn8d, Zoe_Dameron, LeftWingLibrarian, and TuppingLiberty for betaing and/or helping me figure out how to write this fic. Many thanks also to the Star Wars Writing Alliance for your support and encouragement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: child soldiers, graphic violence, guns, injury, non-consensual drug use, oblique references to vomiting, hunger, dehydration.

_1998 (6 years old)_

He was huddled into himself, listening to the snap of the fire and the distant grunts of hyenas and the low mutterings of his commanders. He closed his eyes, clutched the gun in his arms closer to his chest, and rubbed his thumb across that little patch on the barrel that had become smoother and smoother under his touch as the years had gone by. After a few more minutes, he fell asleep—thumb slowing, then stilling over the smooth patch.

_  
_

_  
_

_1999 (7 years old)_

He was never sure why his stomach bothered trying to throw up after these things, because there was nothing in it to throw up. Not even a too-high dose of the drugs. Just the images, but they were in his head, so they wouldn't disappear out his throat.

Finn wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and stood, pressing a hand again to the slash in his side. If he was fast enough on the march back to their camp, he might get a bandage for it, or even a little bit of antiseptic. It was incentive enough to convince his legs to work again, so—he marched, ignoring the wet stickiness on his hand.

_  
_

_  
_

_2005 (13 years old)_

He needed to get out. That was all he knew, as he said _yes sir_ and _no sir_ and _I will, sir, right away, sir._ He needed to get out, somewhere, anywhere. There was no real hope of escape: the few who had tried had been caught, and their blood was no longer inside their bodies. But he couldn't do this, he couldn't stay here, he couldn't.

They torched a village; he watched it burn. The drugs distorted the flames as they leapt higher and hotter and closer to his skin. His commander’s voice echoed between his ears in a cacophonous disharmony with another voice, someone’s voice, he wasn't sure whose. Shouting at him: _don’t do this, cannot do this, this is wrong._

He started taking less and less of the drugs they were forced to take. Hiding them beneath his sleeve, pounding them into the dust beneath his foot. Withdrawal made his hands shake, badly enough that he missed his shot during practice and went to bed without eating for three nights in a row. But there was an iron rod inside him now, one he’d never known he had—a force that lifted his head in the morning, every morning, no matter how badly it hurt.

He would do this. He would get out. Whatever they did to him when they caught him—however long he had before he was captured—it would be worth it. It would all be worth it. He would escape.

_  
_

_  
_

_2006 (14 years old)_

It was during the worst fight they’d ever been ordered into that he finally got his chance. The huts flared orange and red in the darkness, crumbling into themselves. The screams rose, fell. Bullets cracked around his ears. Finn hid in the darkness, making himself as still and silent as possible. Willing his commanders to look away, look— _yes._

Finn fell to his stomach, wormed his way forward into the space between two huts, beneath some—some—some things to cover him. With his gun beneath his stomach, covered by his body, and his limbs as still as he could make them, he waited for his commanders to give the order for the others to leave. Closed his eyes and made his mind blank, as blank as he could. He was good at it by now.

Blank, so he didn’t see the empty eyes of his best friend, staring up in the flickering firelight. Blank, so he didn’t hear or smell the destruction of the villagers and their village. Blank, so he didn’t feel the dead bodies covering him from the eyes of his former comrades.

Blank.

 

 

 

When the village fell silent around him at last, Finn worked his way out from beneath the pile of bodies and pushed to his feet, slow and aching. He retched again, because—

Well.

The moment he was done, he scrounged what water and food he could find still undestroyed in the village, strapped them to his waist, adjusted the weight of the gun across his back, and set out north across the arid Sahel. Away from their campsite, away from every settled place he knew, and most importantly, out of the country. Toward Niger—he thought. If he’d gotten the navigation wrong, this would either be a very short walk ending in a bullet to his gut and a long day bleeding out in the center of the camp, or a very long walk ending in a dehydration-induced hallucination.

He walked, slept, walked, stumbled, picked himself up, walked, closed his eyes against a mirage, drank the last of his water, walked, shot the hyena before it got any closer. When he realized that he was out of food and there was no firewood to be found, but there was a large dead creature in front of him, he made his mind as blank as he could and did what needed to be done. Got up again. Wonders if it would, one day, be possible to make his mind un-blank again. Probably not.

Well.

He walked.

 

 

 

Finn lay on the frigid sand of the Sahel and stared up at the night sky—bottomless, endless, cracked through with stars. With a quiet sigh, he fell up into the sky, tumbling head over heels into a strange new world with no walls.

 

 

 

The refugee camp was blinding in the noonday sun, miles and miles of square tents arranged in rows. Enterprising residents hawking all manner of wares. Piles of—oh. _Oh._

Barrels of water. Bags of grain, and beans, and cooking oil. Finn followed the pointing fingers until he reached the entrance of the camp and begged admission with the three or four words of English he knew. As far as he could tell, no one here spoke Yoruba. The refugees were mostly Malian; the aid workers spoke French or English amongst themselves. He had only been here a few hours and already the dizzy loneliness was starting to hurt his head.

Before he entered the camp, they made him drop his gun. It was harder than he expected to relinquish it. For as long as he could remember, it had been his constant companion—friend and bodyguard and grounding rod. Without its solid length on his back, he wasn't sure who he was anymore. As he sat in the medical tent, waiting while a doctor—a doctor!—treated the deep cuts and burns in his bare feet and over the rest of his body, he started to think— _maybe that’s a good thing._ Maybe now, he could decide who he was.

It was a strange thought.

All he could think of was the number of notches in the barrel of his gun. The way it shook in his arms, that first time, kicking back at his shoulder until it was covered in bruises. The smooth patch that always brought him back to earth. All he could think was—he never wanted to kill again.

Ever.

Again.

 


	2. think about it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for non-graphic gun and knife violence, major injury, references to past violence and child soldiers.
> 
> Glossary:
> 
> Yoruba = one of the languages of Nigeria
> 
> Tamasheq = the language of the Tuareg people in Mali. 
> 
> güey = dude/dumbass (Mexican Spanish)
> 
> sawa = okay (Swahili)

He was assigned to a tent that already packed ten other young men beneath its billowing roof. He listened to them talk at night, clustered around the burner’s limited warmth. He watched the flash of their teeth and the flight of their hands, clung to each new Tamasheq and Bambara word he learned. There was no book, no teacher, no Yoruba-Tamasheq or -Bambara dictionaries like the guides he saw the aid workers pulling out of their pockets from time to time. The only guide was his head, so he used it.

It was—thrilling, in a way. He'd never had a chance to think so much before—or, more importantly, to be rewarded for thinking, rather than sinking deeper into despair the more he thought about what he did in service to the militia. In a week, he could ask for what he needed; in a few more weeks, he started to attempt to join their conversation.

They talked about everything, fast and laughing and all at once. Hopes, sneakers, memories, dirty jokes, families, dreams, girls. He listened, he learned, but he didn’t really have anything to say. What could he possibly say?

He hoped they never found him. He'd never worn sneakers. He didn’t want to remember anything. Sometimes the dirty jokes he knew kept him awake at night. His squadron had been his family, and if he was lucky he'd never see them again. He dreamed of things he would never have.

He finally told them that he had a crush on the beautiful girl with the richly dyed headscarf who always sat by the water tent, but whenever he passed by, he forgot every word of Tamasheq he’d ever learned. They laughed at him and coached him through a few awful come-ons until he was laughing so hard he nearly fell against the burner.

 

 

 

He spent as much time as he could at the little school, soaking up as much as he possibly could. He wasn’t quite illiterate—he’d taught himself as much as he could from labels and signs. But the first time he read an entire page, crowded around a table with the other students, reading ahead of the teacher’s slow-moving finger, he felt like he could do anything at all. Bring forth water in the desert, fly over the mountains, make meaning from black lines. It was incredible.

He was smart, according to the teacher. It was a strange word. Halfway out of her mouth, he was still expecting it to be “strong,” because until now, that was the best thing he’d ever been called. Strong but weak-hearted, cowardly, naive. _Smart?_ That was the day he finally got up the nerve to talk to the beautiful girl.

Apparently Tinhinan was engaged to be married the next month.

Even that barely dented his spirits.

He wrestled with his tentmates in the center of their tent sometimes, for fun. After he pinned all ten of them down in back-to-back fights, they invited him to be part of the camp’s informal peacekeeping group. He was added to the patrol system, eventually given his own squad. It was peaceful, mostly, just walking up and down the rows of tents. They broke up disputes, confiscated weapons, hauled the worst offenders to what passed for a justice system in the camp. It felt good to be doing something worthwhile. Something he knew, but transformed from how he’d always known it: using strength and skill to bring _peace,_ instead of violence. It felt good.

It felt really, _really_ good.

 

 

 

Sometimes he was sick with loneliness, a hunger like he’d never felt before. To speak a full sentence—a paragraph, even!—without struggling with the unfamiliar grammar.  To share an easy laugh with a friend who didn’t need an explanation. His life had been completely different from theirs. They talked about homes, villages, towns, cities. What would he talk about? Guns, training, drugs. There were good memories too, mixed in with the bad. Plenty of them. But whenever he talked about it he just got looks. Weird looks.

Bad looks.

“When I talk about—where I am from,” he asked at last, stumbling and hesitant. It was just him and one of his tentmates, sheltering from the fierce heat beneath the dusty walls of their tent. “Everyone looks at me. Like they want to drop me in the latrine.”

“Yeah?” Boubacar didn’t bother looking up from the radio he was trying to fix.

“Do you know why that is?” Finn pursued.

Boubacar looked up. Stared at him. Looked down again. “I left when the Tuareg rebels invaded,” he said, lips curling back, as he wrestled with a set of wires. “Bunch of children. Couple of thugs. Pointing guns at us like they’ll shoot if we talk too fast.”  

Finn’s chest went cold in horror. “I’m so sorry.—”

“Whatever.” Boubacar waved a dismissive hand. “It’s done. And now I live with the families of the perpetrators. Learn their language so I can make nice to them, while they look at me like I’m the blackest scum of the earth. Literally.” He maneuvered the wires back into place and glowered down at the radio. “You said you didn’t sign up for it. Got sold into it, stolen, whatever. You were still one of them.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Yeah? You sorry about my village, too? And my family? Shut the fuck up, man. I’m done.” Boubacar wrapped the radio back up in a cloth with precise, shaking hands, shoved his feet into his sandals, bashed the tent flap open, and left.

Finn lunged to his feet and ran after him down the dusty path. “I’m _sorry,”_ he rasped. “I didn’t want this any more than you wanted to leave your home. I’m not one of them anymore. I _left_.”

Boubacar finally stopped and stared down at him. “Good,” he said. He continued on without a backwards glance. “If God wills it, maybe my little brother will too.”

Finn stumbled to a halt in the middle of the path, wrapped his arms around his chest, and stared after Boubacar for a long time.

 

 

 

Finn didn’t talk about the past again. Instead, he shut his mouth and listened. Watched. Learned.

There was a family across the path from their tent. Father, mother, five children, grandmother, unidentified female relative who might be an aunt, younger couple who may be cousins or friends or who the fuck knows. They sat around the fire just like Finn and his tentmates did, talking and laughing and nursing.

Sometimes there was yelling, inside the tent—especially during months when there was not enough food to go around. Sometimes the mother stood outside her tent during the day, while the father was off with his friends, and pounded millet as though she was crushing a cohort of demons beneath her pestle. Sometimes she popped a breast out of her blouse and nursed, holding the baby with one hand, covering her eyes with the other, maybe crying, it was hard to tell. Sometimes the father balanced the baby in his lap and made silly faces at it, tiny feet braced on his legs, tiny hands waving at his nose. Sometimes the rest of the family retreated into the tent and the father and mother stayed outside, leaning on each other’s shoulders, looking up at the stars, talking in low voices, laughing at each other’s jokes.

Finn didn’t talk to the family. Didn’t try to join them. He’d killed children. Mothers. Fathers. Families. He didn’t deserve to get one of his own.

But he watched them, all right? He watched them a lot.

Because sometimes he was sick with—with _something_ , something he had no name for. It felt like a thirst, maybe, but it choked him far worse than the Sahel ever did. Punched him in the gut, bruised his chest with a dull ache. Homesickness, his tentmates called it, when a few of them buried their noses in illicit grain beer, hidden from their neighbors, instead of laughing around the fire.

But you can’t be homesick for a home you never had.

Right?

 

 

 

_2008 (16 years old)_

He saw the gun a split-second before the man raised it. Threw himself forward, grabbed the barrel, and shoved it upward as they both fell. The bullets went astray, arcing above the tents in a solid line of machine-gun fire.

For a moment Finn thought they might be all right. He twisted the man’s wrists behind his back and patted him down for more weapons—no, actually, he didn’t. Because his arms wouldn't obey his commands anymore, and his head was falling to the man’s chest, dizzy and nauseous. What—what—  

From far above him, he heard the others in his informal peacekeeping patrol group engaging with what sounded like a gang. Slash and clang of machetes, shouting in a few different languages.

And then…then then then…he was back! awake again, although only barely. The fight had ended. Someone was yelling for a doctor. Someone else was slapping a bunched-up shirt onto his back and pressing down hard enough to hurt, oh _fuck,_ that hurt. Something warm and wet trickled down his side.

Someone grabbed his hand and shouted at him. Hold onto something, maybe? Hold onto what, Finn wondered. He’d held onto the attacker. Saved the families in this section of the camp. Saved the other peacekeepers in his group.

He needed to stay awake. To protect…protect…hold on…to what?

Whatever it was, he could do it. He could hold on. He had to. He would.

 

 

 

When he woke up, something was burning and something was buzzing and he wasn't quite sure how to tell the difference. It took him a few moments to figure out how to open his eyes. When he did, he figured it out: there was a fly buzzing by his nose, which was currently smashed sideways into a flat pillow, face down. When he tried to raise an arm to brush off the fly, his back clenched in a stab of excruciating pain. He held his breath and tried to ride it out. Apparently the burning thing was his back. Okay. Good to know.

Someone was talking above him. To him? Finn squinted. There. She moved into his line of vision again. A short, wizened, aid worker, with a brightly patterned head tie and glasses thicker than a Coke bottle. Untying something on his back, peeling it back—bandages, he supposed—and smoothing some kind of salve onto his skin. He looked at her. She peered down at him, then said something else.

It still took him far too long to translate the words. They were English, this time, and he’d been learning some English in the camp’s school, when he could, he should know this. But his thoughts skipped around, muddled and slow. Drugs. They’d given him drugs. _NO. NO NO NO NO NO—_ The spear of panic rose, crested, and dissolved, unable to find purchase in the fog of his brain. He wasn’t sure what was going on. She repeated the words, slowly and clearly. _Good morning,_ he finally parsed _. How are you?_

How was he? Now there was a question without an answer. The corner of his mouth quirked up helplessly. “Where?” he asked.

“You’re in the medical tent. Hospital. Do you remember what happened?”

“Back,” he said at last. “My back. The gun. They—” He paused for breath, clenched his fists against another wave of pain. “Others. Group. Okay?”

She frowned at him. “The others—in your peacekeeping group, you mean?”

He nodded.

“They’re fine, as far as I know. We had a couple of other casualties from the fight, but nothing so bad as yours.”

He understood enough of that to rest his worries, so he let his eyes slip shut again.

 

 

 

Sometime later he woke up again. Someone was screaming at the far end of the tent. Childbirth, maybe? It was hard to tell. He tried to close his ears to it, but the sound went on and on.

The air was hot and stifling against his skin. He was still on his stomach. He tried to move—ok, not as bad as last time. Still not worth moving. He could wiggle his toes, though, and his fingers, so he wasn't paralyzed, thank goodness. Would he have been put out of his misery if he had been? The rules of the world outside the army were still fuzzy to him, even after a few months in the camp. So many things that no one talked about, even now that he understood what they said. He was nearly fluent in Tamasheq by now, with some English, some French, a little Bambara he'd picked up from Boubacar. He hadn’t met another Yoruba-speaker yet, so he just talked to himself in his head so he wouldn't forget.

The language, that was. He’d love to forget everything else.

 

 

 

Finn blinked awake. He was still on his stomach, face squashed into the pillow. There was a shadow leaning over his cot. He craned his head to see, wishing he could turn over onto his back, sit up— “Oh,” he said. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Boubacar crouched down to his level and stared at him, uncharacteristically solemn. “They said you made it.” He smiled a little.

“I think so.” Finn tried to smile back. “They’re not letting me walk yet. But they say I will, so, um. I guess—that’s good.”

“Yeah.” Boubacar fiddled with something in his hands, below Finn’s view. “I, uh. I wanted to say. I’ve been meaning to for a long time. But—yeah. Um. Anyway. I wanted to apologize for what I said.”

Finn blinked. “About—what?”

Boubacar shrugged uncomfortably. “It was a couple of years ago, I guess. Just—about my brother, and—”

“Ohhh.” Finn shifted, wishing he could sit up. “No, look, I understand—”

“Shut up, man.”

Finn shut up.

“I’m sorry.” Boubacar’s eyes held Finn’s, dark and intense. “About what happened to you. And for what I said. Okay? I hope my brother—” He cleared his throat. “I hope he’s in a camp too, somewhere. With a nice tentmate who makes him feel welcome. I should have done that for you. I didn’t. And I’m sorry.”

“Thank you,” Finn said softly. “I’m sorry—”

“No, it’s okay, it’s done—”

“Shut up, man,” Finn interrupted, with a crooked grin.

Boubacar stopped short. The corners of his lips twitched up.

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” Finn said. “And your brother. I hope he makes it out someday.”

“Yeah.” Boubacar looked down to the dusty ground. “Well. Thank you.” He stood again and touched Finn’s shoulder. “You too, man. If God wills it.” He turned to go, then pivoted back on his heel. “Oh, and we made a system. At least one of us will come visit you in here, every day. Twice a day, if we can.”

“Thank you,” Finn said, completely awed. “That’s—you don’t have to do that—”

“You’re welcome, man,” Boubacar interrupted. “So. Get better quick. I miss your jokes.”

“Miss you too,” Finn said.

Boubacar’s smile flashed across his face like a rush of sparks from the burner.

 

 

 

“So,” the aid worker with the thick glasses said. She was surprisingly strong for someone so small and hunched. He’d given up on determining her age—40, maybe? The oldest women he’d ever met was just over 40, and she’d had the same wrinkles and slight stoop to her gait as the aid worker did. Who knew.

Why someone so old was working as a medic in a refugee camp was still a mystery to him. The only things she had said about herself so far were that her name was Amaziah, that she normally went by Maz, and that she was from Kenya.

When he overheard her speaking a language he was pretty sure was neither English nor Swahili, and asked her about it, he learned that she’d been born in Mexico. After that, she taught him a bit of Spanish slang each time she came to change the bandages on his back. Maybe she thought she could distract him from the pain? She also kept speaking English with him, which was good, because it gave him something to do during the long hours in the medical tent. He repeated the words to himself and made them into new sentences—serious, silly, profound.

Eventually Maz let him sit up, and stand, and try to walk. He’d already gotten so weak—scarily weak. To pass the time while he walked up and down the tent, leaning on her arm, she talked to him.

“So,” she said again. “What do you think of life outside of the militia?”

Finn stopped short.

She waited.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said.

Maz looked at him. This close, her skin seemed to glow, a shimmer of gold beneath the sagging roof of the tent. “I did your medical inspection. When you first arrived. Remember?”

“No.”

“Well,” she snorted. “That’s because you were nearly dehydrated enough to be seeing things. I still can’t believe you made it here. But.” She took one of his hands. He let her, surprised. She ran her thumb along the rough skin of his palm. “AK-47, maybe? Assault rifle, for sure. Here, and here. Your hands are silent now, but when you arrived, they told me where you’d been.” She pointed to the places where he’d ripped off the calluses once they started to dry and peel off, no longer needed. “It’s quite clear, when you know what to look for.”

He stared straight ahead. He only realized he’d been holding his breath when she tapped his chest with one dry-wrinkled finger. “Let’s get you back down now.”

He wordlessly turned with her, back toward the cot. Focused all of his energy on putting one foot in front of the other. It was only when he was easing back down onto the cot, back throbbing with a low-grinding ache, that he said, “Please.”

“What do you mean, please?” She settled him onto the thin mattress, beat a bit of sand off the sheets, and covered him again.

“Don’t tell them.” He stared up at the ceiling, eyes dry and stinging.

“Tell who?” She sat at the edge of his cot and leaned down toward him to see him better.

“They’ll take me back.”

“The militia?”

He nodded.

“Child.” She set a hand on his arm. “They can’t touch you anymore. You’re gone, disappeared, far away now. Sawa?”

He shrugged. She looked out across the tent. “Look,” she said. “You probably won’t believe me for another ten years. That’s okay. Who knows, maybe your asylum application will be accepted by then, and you’ll be out of here.”

He snorted.

“Or, okay, maybe you’ll still be here. Teaching, maybe.”

“No.” He shook his head. “I need to get out of here. Far away. A few of the others and I. We were talking. Walk to the coast, maybe north, maybe west. Get a boat. Go to Europe.”

“Hmm,” she said. A patient a few beds down woke and started to moan. Maz hurried up and went to tend to her. Finn closed his eyes and tried to sleep.

Before he knew it, she was settling back onto his cot. “I know you’re not asleep, güey. Open your eyes and listen to me.”

“I need to sleep,” Finn grumbled. “I’m hurt.”

Maz cackled. “I like you. Wake up, come on.”

“If you tell them—” Finn said.

“Mmm?”

 _I’ll kill you was_ on his tongue. He bit it hard enough to draw blood.

“I’m not going to tell them,” she said. “I don’t even know how I would find them. You need to listen to me.”

He opens his eyes. She stared down at him. “You’re trying to run from it,” she said.

“Of course. I—”

Maz cut him off with an urgent dash of her hand. “I don’t mean physically. That, I assure you, you can and already have done. They won’t bother to try to track you down. Plenty of other children they can steal.”

Finn flinched.

Maz pointed at him. “ _That’s_ what I mean by ‘run from it.’ They’re still in your head. And they’re still out there. You can never outrun it. The only thing you can do is stand and fight.”

“I’m not killing people,” he snapped at her. “Ever again.”

“I didn’t say kill.” Maz adjusted her glasses on her nose. “I said fight. There’s a difference. You see it?” She patted his arm and rose. “Think about it,” she said.


	3. i can't go home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for PTSD symptoms (including nightmares and intrusive violent thoughts) and references to potential suicidal ideation, past car accident, and police brutality.
> 
> End note contains background information and sources for the first three chapters.
> 
> Glossary:
> 
> sama doom = my child (Wolof, one of the languages of Senegal) [Note: I spent ten hours searching for a Wolof term of endearment from a mother to her son, with little luck. I finally found this in the Peace Corps Wolof manual, which was written by a native speaker of Wolof, I’m fairly sure this is accurate. However, if you know a better phrase, please let me know!][Fun fact: Wolof uses gender-neutral pronouns—i.e., the same word for he, she, and it.]  
>   
> suya = barbecued chili-peanut meat  
>   
> Jollof rice = spiced rice with tomatoes, peppers, onions and assorted other friends. Originally from Senegal, now made in many West African countries, including Nigeria and Ghana. Recipe specifics vary by country.  
>   
> thiakry = (pronounced CHA-kree) couscous with yogurt, condensed milk, raisins, and other fun things like coconut and cinnamon.

_January 2010 (17 years old)_

Finn thought about it.

In the meantime, miracle of miracles, his application for asylum was accepted. He was sent to the United States and taken in by a refugee resettlement agency. The first several months were a blinding whirlwind of activity. Get used to sleeping in a room with four solid walls. Go to physical therapy, learn how to stretch his back so that he could eventually live without pain. He was about to age out of the foster system, but the woman who volunteered to be his foster mother promised him that she would still be there for him when he did. He was told that he could go to high school now, keep learning English, and get his diploma. That once he graduated, and once his English was up to par, he might be able to get money to go to college.

He studied all night.

It was easier than sleeping, at any rate.

 

 

 

_February 2010 (17 years old)_

“This is your room.” Fatimatou wheeled into the room ahead of him and waved a hand around the space. It was far larger than he’d ever expected, nearly twice his height in both length and width. There was a bed in one corner with dark blue sheets neatly tucked in on each side. It was as high and fluffy as a TV bed. A window looked out over the small yard behind the house. There was a desk on one wall, a bureau on the other. White wood, clean and bright. A few prints—a forest, a beach, a mountain—looked down at him from the walls. Finn looked away from the sand, rested his eyes on the clear blue of the sky around the mountain.

“I put a few things up,” Fatimatou was saying. “Picked out sheets in a color I thought you might like, put up some pretty art I found at the bookstore’s sale this summer. Just to get you settled in here. Looked too girlish with my, ah, my daughter’s—Allah yarhama—bubblegum pink paint still on the walls. Maybe I should have taken it off years ago, but Marina liked it—she was my former foster daughter, moved back to her aunt a few months ago—but I thought you might like something a bit more manly. We can go into town, once you’ve settled in a bit, and you can pick out whatever else you’d like.”

“Thank you,” Finn said. He'd said thank you so many times in the last week, it was starting to roll off his tongue before he’d even thought about what to say. He liked the way his foster mother talked—clear and easy to understand, without sounding like she was talking to a child. He understood enough, usually. Far more than he was able to say himself, at least, but that seemed to be a difficult concept for people to wrap their heads around here.

“It’s beautiful,” Finn added, looking around the room, thinking to himself— _grateful, not furious._ Every few minutes here, it seemed, he saw another thing he never dreamed could be his, saw a child with so much. When he thought about the children he huddled around the fire with, saw the dull starvation echoing from his eyes to theirs, he lost his breath to an overwhelming wave of— _what_ , exactly? Fury? Longing? Sadness? Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. He was here now. This was his life. He was going to do what he needed to do. He was determined not to ask a stupid question like— _is this for me? all of it?_ —when clearly it was. “Thank you,” he said again. “Thank you.”

Fatimatou looked up at him with a quirked half-smile. “You’re welcome, dear,” she said, and patted his hand. “Now.” She spun in place and headed back down the hallway. “What would you like for dinner? What do you like to eat?”

“Everything?” Finn followed his foster mother back to the kitchen, fighting a wave of exhaustion.

Fatimatou laughed. “You sound like my husband, Allah yarhamu. Anything in particular? Favorite foods? I can’t promise anything, but I’ll do my best.”

 _Anything._ What a world. Finn stared at her. “Suya?” he offered at last.

Her brow furrowed. “What’s that?”

“It’s—meat. Cooked on a fire?” Finn bit his lip, trying to dig through his tired brain for more specific words to describe it.

“Hmm…wait wait wait!” Fatimatou held up a finger, fishes in the pocket by her side for her phone, and looked it up online. “Hmm,” she said again, frowning down at the small screen. “I think I could try to make something like that? I can get halal meat, sometimes, but it’s a little hard to find around here. I just ran out the other day. So. I’ll put it on the list for later. Anything else you like?”

Finn stared down at her. It occurred to him, for the thousandth time since his application for asylum was accepted, that he may never have to go hungry again. Was it possible that someday the idea wouldn't make him dizzy anymore? “I love Jollof rice,” he said at last, shaking himself back to reality.

Her face lit up. “Now _that_ is something I know how to make. The Senegalese version is different, I think, but maybe you’ll like it. We’ll have to experiment a bit. So. Feel free to settle in, walk around the neighborhood—it’s very safe, I’ll give you a tour tomorrow morning. Watch TV, read a book from the shelf, whatever you want to do. Okay?”

“Can I stay and help?” he asked.

She smiled at him. “That would be lovely! Thank you. Here.” She pointed out a cutting board and a paring knife, handed him a pile of onions, and showed him how to cut them. The angle was a little awkward over her low counters, but Finn took great pleasure in chopping the onions as finely as he could.

He thought to himself, over and over again— _this knife is for cooking. No one will use it for violence. Cooking. This is okay._ The edge of the blade glinted under the kitchen lights. The handle was at home in his palm. He changed his grip, made it awkward and different, so that it would stop tracing down old habits in his mind. _Cooking,_ he thought. _Home._ Fatimatou asked him a question. Finn focused on answering, feet on the linoleum floor, one hand on the cabbage, other hand on the knife. Breathing in the steamy, spice-scented air.

 

 

 

At last Fatimatou caught him in one yawn too many and sent him off to take a nap while the rice cooked slowly in the large pot. When he woke, disoriented and unsettled, the spicy air brought him back into his own skin again. He found his foster mother setting a cloth on the table and smoothing out its edge. “Ah!” She looked up and smiled at him. “Perfect timing. Come sit.”

He took a seat, back stiffly straight. She unveiled a large bowl of spiced rice, topped with large chunks of fish and vegetables, and nodded at him. “Bismillah,” she said. “Enjoy.”

Finn automatically reached for a fork, but found only the cloth-covered table. He looked up at her, jaw tense. “I can eat with a fork, you know,” he said.

“I know.” Her eyes crinkled at the edges. “I can, too. Do you prefer it? I have plenty, if you like.”

“I—” He blinked, stopped. “No,” he said at last. “I don’t prefer it. I prefer—this way.”

“Good.” She grinned back at him and gestured towards the bowl. “So do I. Eat up, sama doom. Feel at home here, if you can.”

“Thank you,” he said again, feeling a tumble of gratitude press against his tongue. The words weren't enough, not now, not ever, so he said them again: “ _Thank_ you.” For the first time since coming here, he could feel his smile reach all the way down to his bones.

Her smile fit her face like she was born with it. “You’re welcome, Finn. It’s a pleasure.”

Finn looked at her. Nodded. He reached into the bowl and folded a small handful of rice into a neat ball. It exploded on his tongue, spicier than anything he’d eaten since getting on the plane to come here. She was right, it was different than the Jollof rice he grew up with, but it was close enough to be familiar in his hands. It heated his body, settled his heart.

When the bowl was nearly empty and his stomach was full, Finn sat back, warm and satisfied. He listened to the distant noise from the street, the quiet of the little house. Stood up, washed his hands. Stared at them.

“I can’t go home,” he said. He could feel her eyes on him, but he couldn't look back at her. He rubbed his thumb over the lip of the sink to ground himself, cool metal beneath his finger. Closed his eyes. Made his hand into a scoop, pulled a handful of food from the air, and rolled it into a ball in his hand. _“Thank_ you,” he rasped.

 

 

 

_May 2010 (18 years old)_

Finn spun away, hands pressed over his mouth, sick with horror. His skin buzzed with the way her cheek would snap back beneath his fist if he punched her. A haze of terrified anger roared through his head, halfway to a flashback, who the fuck knew, he’d been here for months now, but half of him was still in the militia, he couldn't—he—

His hands were shaking. He couldn't look at her. _Intrusive thoughts,_ his therapist had called them, as though having a name for a feeling could ever make it less terrifying.

“Finn.” Fatimatou reached a hand up to him. “What’s going on? It’s okay, you're okay, everything is—”

“No. No no no no no. This is not okay. This is not—” English failed him for a moment. He clawed through his hair and wished, for one wild moment, for the safety of his rifle in his hands. That smooth patch on the barrel. The glorious cacophony of firing, the deafening crack of each bullet as it exploded out of the—

Finn couldn't breathe. He touched a few fingers to Fatimatou’s hand, closed his eyes—and dodged around her, raced down the hall, barreled through the entryway, flung open the locks, slammed the door shut behind him, and pelted barefoot down the street as though a pack of jackals were on his tail. Turned left, veered right, stumbled down the hill, switchbacked along the gravel pathways, gritted teeth, put on speed, powered up the next hill, looked right, looked left, slipped into the forest.

Crashed through the bushes, brambles, roots, whatever, shit. Found a boulder, huddled behind it, arms around knees, forehead pressed to crossed arms. Listened to the sound of his own breathing, harsh and loud beneath the birdsong.

He couldn't even cry. He didn’t—he couldn't—he wouldn't—blank. _Blank._ His mind was cracking open, dripping down his back. He could see it in blinding technicolor: the way her eyes would flash with fear when his fist met her cheek, the rush of blood beneath her skin. Horror roared hot in his blood. He just knew that he couldn't go back. He couldn't go back, _ever._ If he ever hurt her—he couldn’t live with himself. He should have known. He was born a soldier, raised a soldier. He should have stayed a soldier. Died a soldier. He couldn't risk hurting her. Anyone else. He'd just—stay here. Let the leaves cover him. Breathe in the green-rot-rain forest air. Let the ground take him back into its own.

Finn curled into a ball on the forest floor.

 

 

 

“No, _you_ listen to me!” Fatimatou snapped. “You need to go find him, _now_. You know I can’t run after him. I don’t know what—no, okay, I’d like to see you recover from a lifetime of brainwashing and abuse in four months. It’s not enough. Yes, he’s seeing a counselor. He was doing better, until today, maybe yesterday, he was quieter than usual— _no,_ I don’t think he’s suicidal—I don’t know, masha’Allah, I hope not.” She leaned her head on her hand. “But that’s what I mean. If you’d like him to _keep_ seeing the counselor, then you need to send out your squad now and look for him! But—”

Fatimatou rolled back and forth across the living room, sick with worry. A good idea to send the police out after Finn? No. But they’d been implementing those nonviolent policies, things had been better for a few years now, maybe, who knew. What else could she do? He would hurt himself, she knew, she could see it in his eyes.

For a moment her life tipped on the edge of an icy embankment, her daughter screaming in the backseat, her husband already—then the world snapped back into focus.  

“He’s _unarmed,_ okay? Unarmed. And a minor. If any harm comes to him I swear to you I’ll—no, he’s not a violent person! Are you crazy? Have you been listening to me? He’s terrified. Traumatized. Be _gentle_. And you tell your squad that, too. Or I swear to you, I’ll—okay. Okay. Thank you. Yes, I’ll call the counselor. He’d be happy to explain the situation to your squad. I’m coming down to the station now. You—just—call me if you hear anything, okay? Yes. I’ll be right there. Thank you. So much.”

She yanked her purse off the counter, rolled out of the house, raised the key to the door—and lowered it again. Maybe Finn would return on his own. She'd leave the door open for him, just in case.

Heart in her mouth, Fatimatou hurried down to the police station fast enough that her hands burned.

 

 

 

The snuffling of the dog in the bushes was Finn’s only warning. He scrambled for cover behind the boulder, automatically reaching for the gun on his back. When his hands closed over air and he realized what he’d been trying to do, he lost his breath all over again, nauseated. Pivoted on his heel and ran, flat-out, sprinting around trees and over rocks and between roots and—

He stumbled to the ground with an agonized groan. For a moment, he was sure he’d been shot, right in the back, one long burning line—then he remembered. He put a shaking hand to the scar on his back. Right. He wasn’t supposed to run yet, was he. He must have pulled something, wrenched it the wrong way. He tried to get up, take cover, protect himself, but he couldn't get up. Even trying to roll over made his head spin.

“Finn?” The voice was gentle.

“Please,” Finn said. That’s all he could say, all he could do. “Please,” he said again, not even sure what he was pleading for. To go home? To be left alone? To be put down, like a rabid dog?

“I’m not going to hurt you,” the voice said. “I’m just here to get you back home safe. Okay? Your foster mom’s worried about you.”

Finn closed his eyes, sank his forehead down to the damp earth.

“You’re okay,” the voice said, still unreasonably gentle. Misleading, like the commander just before he struck a soldier down. “Everything’s all right. Can you come talk to me, for a bit? I’m Officer Zhang, from the search-and-rescue team.”

“No.” Finn tried to stand up again, to run away, away, out of here, far away, but his back spasmed again. He sagged back to the ground. ”I can’t go back,” he said out loud. “What if I hurt her? Or anyone else?”

“You’ll get better, Finn. Your counselor talked to us. Not about you in particular, but in general. About flashbacks, and trauma. It’s not your fault, he said. What happened to you, or what you think about. As long as you keep talking to him, and working on it, you’ll get fewer and fewer flashbacks. You’ll retrain your brain, he said. To react differently when you’re scared.”

Focusing on the sound of the voice, trying to make sense of the flurry of words, helped calm Finn down a little. Slowly and carefully, he managed to push himself up to a seated position. The voice belonged to a middle-aged man, crouching among the fallen leaves, one hand on the back of an enormous dog. “Do you want some water?” the man asked. He pulled a bottle out of the side of his pack and handed it toward Finn.

“I was raised,” Finn rasped. “To do one thing.”

Officer Zhang nodded. Set the waterbottle down by his feet. Waited.

“What if that’s the only thing I can do?” Finn’s voice cracked.

Officer Zhang tilted his head and considered this. “You’re a human being,” he said at last. “You can learn. Change.” He nodded toward the dog. “Semper’s been trained from birth to be a search-and-rescue dog. He’s good at his job. Damn good. But he will probably never be a show dog. You, on the other hand? You’re a human. And you’re not even legal to buy cigarettes yet.” He shot Finn a lopsided grin. “You’ve got plenty of time to figure it out.”

Finn’s lips twisted up. “Not interested in cigarettes. Had enough hard drugs to last a lifetime.”

Officer Zhang cleared his throat. “Right. Well.”

Finn rubbed his forehead. The shame was a crushing weight on his shoulders. He couldn't get rid of it, no matter what he did. _No wonder my back hurts_ , he thought. He just wanted to leave, jump out of his skin and leave it behind. Run through the woods until he hit the end of the world.

 _You’re trying to run from it,_ Maz said. _You can never outrun it._

 _I didn’t say kill,_ Maz said. _I said fight. There’s a difference. You see it?_

Finn gritted his teeth against the pain and pushed to his feet. Swayed, grabbed onto a tree while the spasm faded.

“You sure you’re ok to walk back?” Officer Zhang asked. “I can radio for a stretcher, or—”

“I can do this,” Finn growled.

Officer Zhang dug a short stick out of his bag and did—something?—to it. Suddenly it was a longer stick. He handed it to Finn.

Finn took it. “Thank you,” he said. Set off through the woods, back the way he came. Step, by step, by agonizing step. The dog trotted a pace ahead of them, leading the way home. _I can do this,_ Finn thought. _I can do this._

His back slowly eased as they walked, loosened by the slow movement. Officer Zhang radioed back to the rest of the squad. Finn tuned him out. Listened to the quiet rustling of the forest around him instead. His feet were cold and wet and starting to get a little numb.

It took them a few hours to get back out to the road that ran through the forest. Fatimatou was waiting there, along with the rest of the squadron. When she saw him, her face lit up. Finn wavered for a moment on the edge of the wood, then continued on towards her, ignoring the calls and questions from the rest of the rescue squad. He stopped one pace in front of her.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“It’s okay.” She reached up to him, cupped his face in her hand. “It’s okay, sama doom. I’m just glad you’re back.” She opened her arms to him. He stumbled to his knees, one hand on his aching back, and leaned into the warmth of her hug.

“I’m _sorry_ ,” he said again.

“I forgive you,” she murmured, patting his head. “Okay? I forgive you. Completely.”

He took a long, shuddering breath. Nodded. Eased back to his feet.

Fatimatou turned to the police captain. “Thank you for bringing him back to me, Captain.”

“Our pleasure, ma’am. You know—” The captain rubbed a hand across his chin. “I know you were worried, when you called. That we’d hurt him. But we’re not the ones you should be worrying about, okay? We’d never respond like that. We’re good people.”

Fatimatou’s lips twisted up in a shadow of a smile. “You know what, dear? That’s what the bad people say, too.” She patted his arm. “But thank you, again. Many thank-yous. Your team did good work today. Have a lovely evening.” With a spin of her wheels, she was back at Finn’s side. “All set, sama doom?”

Finn looked down at her.

“Do you want to come home?” she asked softly.

He nodded.

Fatimatou’s eyes crinkled in a full smile. “I’m glad.” She motioned down the sidewalk. “Let’s go home, before it gets dark?”

Finn reached out a hand and touched her shoulder. Jammed his hands back into his pockets and set off toward their house, bare feet nearly silent on the pavement.

With a brief prayer of thanks, Fatimatou followed.

 

 

 

_September 2010 (18 years old)_

Finn arranged his pencil and pen by his open notebook, sat straight in his chair, and waited. He was very glad that the principal had taken him and Fatimatou on a tour around the high school during the summer, so he didn’t get lost too badly. And that Fatimatou had briefed him on a few other important facts, like the fact that the chalkboards (or whiteboards? weird colorful things) didn’t have horizontal lines painted onto them, so you could write wherever you wanted, and it was ok if the words slanted. That one did not stand and greet the teacher when he or she entered the classroom.

“Claire Abbott,” the teacher called.

“Here.”

“Sarah Acheson.”

“Here.”

Silence.

Finn sighed, leaned back in his chair, and waited. At last the teacher’s eyes flicked up and around the room. It was easy to pick Finn out—he was, after all, the only Black student in the room. He was still trying to get used to that. Not sure he ever would.

“You can do it,” Finn sighed. “Just like it’s written.” At the beginning of first period, he’d politely supplied “Fiyinfoluwa Akindele” and attempted to coach the teacher on how to pronounce it. Not much luck. By third period, he’d just raised his hand and said _you can call me Finn._ Now, with the afternoon sun slanting low through the windows, he was tired of this game. Some of the other students snickered under their breath. Finn wasn’t quite sure yet whether they were laughing at the teacher or him.

The teacher tried. He really did. Finn quietly corrected him, offered up _Finn_ instead, and arranged his pencil and pen by his notebook one more time.

 

 

 

The lunchroom was nearly as loud and crowded as the streets of the refugee camp. Finn found a place near the door, where he could sit with his back to the wall and get out the room quickly. Just in case. He took a moment to just watch the flow of students, mingling everywhere and anywhere. He'd join in…someday. Maybe.

He had leftovers from last night for lunch. There had been leftovers, for once, because Fatimatou made fully twice their normal amount. Finn was starting to lose the always-hungry feeling, which was nice. A little strange. His shirts were getting a little tight around the arms. A few more months of not having to worry about when he was going to get another meal, coupled with his usual early-morning run around the neighborhood (running for fun! because otherwise he’d be sitting all day! what a concept!) and exploring the local gym (lifting things for fun! because otherwise he’d never have to lift anything heavier than his own backpack! this life was so weird), and he might have to ask Fatimatou for a larger size in a few months.

Fatimatou had asked him that morning what he wanted for lunch. She suggested that her previous foster children had asked for “normal” food, like a sandwich, for school lunches. So they could blend in with everyone else? What a concept. Finn wasn’t very worried about it. _I was a child soldier,_ he’d said. _I’m a Nigerian immigrant. I’m Black. I’m still learning English. I’ll never fit in, no matter what I do. Might as well do what I want to._

She’d smiled at him, then. _Good for you,_ she’d said. Finn had decided to rest in the warmth of her smile, rather than look too closely at his lack of interest in trying to fit in.

He was therefore blindsided when a girl—Sasha, maybe? it was hard to tell everyone apart, all these t-shirts and jeans and white faces—slid into the seat across the lunchroom table from him. “Hey,” she said.

Finn blinked. “Hey,” he said. Good with words, that’s what he was.

“Do you want to come sit with us?” she asked. “We just saw you alone, over here, and figured it’s probably kinda hard to settle in here. Especially coming straight into sophomore year, and all. So. If you want. We don’t bite, I promise.” She grinned at him.

He blinked at her. After a moment, he remembered to smile. “I—okay. Okay. Wow. Yeah. I’d love to.” He packed his lunch back into his lunchbox and rose to follow her. “Thank you.”

“Sure!” She flapped a hand back at him in acknowledgement and crossed the lunchroom from his empty table to one packed with other students. Finn took a deep breath, jammed his free hand into his pocket, and followed.

 

 

_November 2010_

“Why are you always _almost_ late to class?” Sasha asked, peeling her clementine in one long careful piece. “You never skip, you’re never _actually_ late, you always do what the teachers tell you to do, you always have your homework done, and you must know where everything is by now, I mean, it’s almost winter break. And, of course, it’s not like you stop in the bathroom to redo your hair and makeup.” She squinted at Finn. “I think.”

Finn snorted. “I, uh—” He focused on reclosing his now-empty tupperware of thiakry, then set the container back into his lunchbox. “I just—I don’t like walking through the hallways when they’re really crowded.”

“But you’re on time for bio,” Hannah objected.

“Well—I don’t know. We walk together.”

Sasha selected a clementine slice, balanced it on her neon green fingernails, and popped it into her mouth. “Huh,” she said. She cut her eyes at Claire. “You have Euro second period on blue days, right?”

“Um—yeah?”

“And…”

“I’ve got English third period,” Jason mumbled around a bite of his sandwich.

“I know that, doofus. I was getting to you. And then we’ve all got bio together for fourth period.”

“Wait—” Finn started.

Sasha leaned her chin on her hands. “You want a hall squad or not, Akindele?”

Finn looked at her. Sasha looked back.

“You don’t need to—I can do this,” Finn said at last. “It’s okay. I’ll get used to the crowds. I need to, someday. I know they’re safe.”

“So tell us to fuck off when you’re ready to,” Sasha shrugged. “At any rate, I’m sure we won’t be able to be there every day. Especially if Jason here keeps getting,” she coughed dramatically, “deathly ill every time we have a bio test. But we all have most of the same classes together, so it’s really not hard to set up a system. And as long as you still want us around—” She grinned at him. “We’ll enjoy having some nice arm candy.”

Finn looked from face to face, cheeks warming with something that felt a little like the comfort of the burner in their tent, friendly company after a long day. “You’re sure. You really don’t mind?”

“Fuckin’ positive, dude,” Jason said through a mouthful of crumbs. “All the shit you’ve been through? ‘Bout time someone showed up to the plate.”

“I—um— _thank_ you. I don’t even know what I can do to repay—”

Sasha held up a hand. “Nope,” she said, and flipped the last clementine slice into her mouth. “No need. Don’t worry about it, Akindele. That’s your blue day squad. Memorize it. Claire will spend forever in the bathroom. Go take a drink from the fountain or something while you’re waiting. Now, gold day. I’ve got chorus with you, and then studyhall is right next to Mr. Jameson’s classroom, so I can ditz off for eighty minutes while you learn better English than we’ll ever bother with, and then…”

“I pass by Mr. Jameson’s on the way from French to geometry,” Hannah offered. “And then we can both take Finn to bio.”

“And there you have it, Finnster.” Sasha propped her elbows on the table and beamed at him. “Gold day squad. Everyone remember your posts? I’ll come after you in the night if you don’t. And Jason, don’t you even think about pressuring Finn to give you his notes.”

Jason held up his hands indignantly. “What? Of course not! What do I look like?”

Claire shook her head. “You really don’t want us to answer that question.”

Finn snorted.

“Not you, too,” Jason groaned.

“It’s okay, Jason.” Hannah patted his arm. “We still love you.”

“Thea doesn’t,” Jason muttered.

“Poor dear,” Sasha cooed, fighting back a snicker.

“I don’t suppose you have any dating advice?” Jason asked Finn.

Finn laughed. “If I did, man, I’d tell you.”

“Damn,” Jason sighed.

“Suck it up, buttercup.” Sasha piled the remains of her lunch back into her lunchbox just as the bell rang. “You’ll live. Oh hey, it’s a blue day! So you’ve got first escort duty.”

“Solid.” Jason nodded. “Let’s go bust ‘em up, Finnster.” He extended a fist towards Finn. It had only taken Finn one startled flinch, a few months ago, to learn that a fistbump was a gesture of friendship, not violence.

“Thanks,” Finn said, and bumped his fist right back.

 

 

 

_January 2011_

Finn knelt before the toilet, eyes closed, breathing hard, trying to fight back the nausea. There was a quiet knock on the door—he nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Finn? Can I come in?”

Finn shook his head. He clung tightly to the porcelain lid, still trembling. His thumb ran across the cool ceramic curve, over and over and over again.

“Do you want a pill to help you sleep? I’ve still got the bottle they prescribed. Just for a night, let you get some rest, for once—”

 _“No.”_ The word scraped in Finn’s throat, harsher than he meant. The night closed in around him, cold and blue, glinting off the corner of the sink and the silver of the flush handle. He leaned his head on the rim of the toilet and tried to slow his breathing. Closed his eyes—and opened them again, still seeing the barrels of a squadron’s guns, pointed at him and Fatimatou, closing in fast. _Come back,_ they ordered him. _Submit yourself for punishment and retraining. The bitch comes too. She can cook, can’t she? We’ll find a use for her._

That wasn’t the worst part.

The worst was that there was a gun in his hands, and he used it.

He shot them all down. To save himself and Fatimatou, he’d killed them all, crackcrackcrack of bullets and spurting blood and pile of limbs and the _smell,_ propellant and blood and guts, spilling out across the muddy ground.

Because he would kill, rather than go back. Wouldn't he? And that terrified him more than any memory ever could.

“Finn,” Fatimatou said, voice soft. “Come out here. Please.”

Finn stumbled to his feet. Unlocked the door, opened it, leaned against the jamb, looked down at her. Sank down to the floor. Buried his head in his knees.

Fatimatou stroked his head. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry, sama doom. You’re safe now. You’re okay. You’ll get better, I swear.”

“Yeah,” Finn rasped, trying to believe her. His body was heavy, stuck on the wooden floor, collapsing in onto itself.

“Want me to tell you a story?” she asked.

He snorted. The silence bowed in on them, looming and grim. “Please,” he said at last.

“Did I ever tell you about learning how to pour tea?” Fatimatou’s voice was soft, quiet, soothing. She told Finn about her little sister, when they first learned how to pour tea, and spilled it nearly as often as not. Played games with each other—how high could they pour the tea without spilling? How deeply could they fill the tiny glasses with froth?

The words spilled around Finn’s ears and tumbled down his spine in a cascade of bubbles. The hall’s nightlight glowed on the curve of Fatimatou’s wheels, rocking back and forth by his toes. Glimmered over the wrinkled lines of her face, golden and loving.

 _I never had someone like this,_ Finn thought. He could still smell the latrine, indescribably putrid, hastily dug weeks ago by himself and his brothers-in-arms. Still feel the sick pounding of his heart and the churn in his stomach, lurching out of a nightmare into a waking horror. Still hear the snorting and snuffling of a hundred sleeping soldiers, always at his back but never at his side.

Finn wrenched his mind back to the present just as Fatimatou’s story ended in a tray of foamy glasses spilling across the courtyard. His heartbeat was slower now, steadier. His hands had nearly stopped shaking. “Thank you,” he murmured.

She ruffled his hair. “Of course, sama doom,” she murmured. “Any time.”

Finn stretched to his feet, back stiff and aching. “Good night.”

“You’ll be all right,” she said.

He stopped, stared out down the dark hallway. Looked back at her. She looked back at him. Raised one elegant brow.

He nodded. Jammed his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants. Headed back down the hall to his room. Closed the door. Curled up on the bed, tight spiral of limbs and hands and head. Closed his eyes.

And slept, as though everything was okay, as though he was all right, as though he never massacred entire villages in his sleep. He woke to early dawn on his face, a chirping alarm beside his bed, Fatimatou’s full-throated harmonizing with the radio wafting in from the kitchen. For a long moment, he just looked out into the room. Books on his desk, trees outside his window, soft quilt rumpled around his body.

 _I wouldn’t,_ he thought. _I’d never kill. Not even to save myself from them._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To fit TFA’s timeline, I needed Finn to be a child soldier in Nigeria from 1996 to 2006. There probably were not child soldiers in Nigeria then, although Boko Haram uses them [now](https://childrenandarmedconflict.un.org/countries-caac/nigeria/) (article TW: violence, rape, abuse). 
> 
> I also needed him to walk across a desert (the Sahel, for example) to a refugee camp. Hence: Niger. There was indeed a civil insurgence in Mali that resulted in many Tuareg refugees fleeing to Niger (here’s a short [article](http://www.unhcr.org/news/latest/2012/4/4f7aeb6a6/unhcr-deeply-concerned-deteriorating-situation-mali.html) about the situation if you’re interested, a series of short [interviews](https://www.theguardian.com/global-development/2012/feb/27/mali-refugees-tell-their-stories) with refugees, and a great [in-depth](http://www.aljazeera.com/indepth/opinion/2014/01/what-do-tuareg-want-20141913923498438.html) look at the situation)…starting in 2012. I moved that timeline up for fictional purposes. There were also child soldiers in [26 years](https://childrenandarmedconflict.un.org/countries-caac/mali/>Mali</a>%20at%20the%20time%20of%20the%20conflict%20in%202012-2015%20\(article%20TW:%20violence,%20rape,%20abuse\),%20although%20again,%20probably%20not%20in%202007%20when%20Finn%20talks%20to%20Boubacar.%20%0A%0AFurthermore,%20suicidal%20ideation,%20sexual%20violence,%20and%20sexually%20transmitted%20diseases%20would%20almost%20definitely%20have%20been%20part%20of%20Finn%E2%80%99s%20experience%20as%20a%20child%20soldier.%20For%20my%20own%20health,%20I%20did%20not%20want%20to%20write%20about%20suicidal%20ideation%E2%80%94this%20fic%20is%20dark%20enough%20as%20is.%20Depicting%20sexual%20assault%20would,%20of%20course,%20make%20the%20story%20FAR%20more%20horrifying,%20and%20it%E2%80%99s%20already%20horrifying%20enough.%20I%20am%20not%20comfortable%20writing%20that,%20and%20I%20wouldn%E2%80%99t%20expect%20anyone%20to%20want%20to%20read%20it%20for%20personal%20enjoyment.%20Likewise,%20I%20did%20not%20want%20to%20play%20into%20the%20all-Africans-have-STDs%20stereotype:%20like%20all%20stereotypes,%20it%E2%80%99s%20false.%20However,%20if%20Finn%20was%20actually%20forced%20to%20use%20hard%20drugs,%20possibly%20requiring%20injections,%20and%20if%20his%20commanders%20used%20rape%20as%20a%20punishment,%20in%20line%20with%20many%20first-hand%20accounts%20from%20child%20soldiers%E2%80%A6it%20would%20have%20been%20improbable%20for%20him%20to%20escape%20that%20without%20sexual%20trauma%20or%20an%20STD.%20%0A%0AFinally,%20the%20chances%20of%20Finn%20gaining%20asylum%20are%20slim%20to%20none.%20The%20international%20average%20duration%20of%20refugee%20crises%20is%20<a%20href=). In 2015, only [0.66%](http://www.npr.org/sections/thetwo-way/2016/06/20/482762237/refugees-displaced-people-surpass-60-million-for-first-time-unhcr-says) of the world’s refugees were granted asylum in another country. 
> 
> Again, while I hope this fic piques your curiosity, it is by no means a factual treatise on West African conflict in the 20th/21st centuries, nor a full portrayal of the experience of being a child soldier or a refugee. If you’re curious, please go look it up and learn about it! For example, these articles about the experiences of child soldiers in [South Sudan](https://www.nytimes.com/2017/04/04/world/africa/child-soldier-south-sudan.html?_r=0) and [Nigeria](https://www.nytimes.com/2017/06/21/magazine/boko-haram-the-boys-from-baga.html) are a good place to start (article TWs include, but are not limited to: institutional abuse and neglect of children, sexual assault, and graphic violence, especially against children and babies).


	4. someday, maybe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: references to homophobia, brief canon-typical fisticuffs.

_March 2011_

“WHAT’S THAT SONG!” Finn roared, pelting out of the bathroom in hastily pulled-on clothing, still clutching his wet towel in one hand. “What’s that song. Fatimatou. What is it?”

Fatimatou blinked up at him, thumb still poised to text someone—probably her niece. “I don’t know.” She frowned at her phone. “Hang on—I’ve got this new thing now to play music. It’s not the radio. It’s—” She shows him her screen. “‘E Dide E Mujo.’ By King Sunny Ade.”

“That song.” Finn stared at the title and tried to memorize it. “My—” He blinked at Fatimatou. “My,” he said. “They.”

“Finn,” she said. “Breathe.”

Finn couldn't quite figure out how to find a chair or couch, so he sat on the floor. “They,” he said again. “That song.” Parents were a thing he didn’t have and had never had and there was no point to thinking about it or getting upset about it because it was a fact of life and there was nothing he could do about it so he shouldn’t be thinking about it now, fucking shit, he shouldn’t be stuck in this because he had to keep going, going until he—

Finn buried his head in his knees and tried to breathe. Fatimatou stroked his head. Finn listened to the song play itself out with a decrescendo of drumbeats. “Again,” he whispered. “Please. Again.”

The song started up again with a playful cascade of chords, a beat that made his feet tap against the floor. Finn closed his eyes. “My parents played this song,” he rasped at last. “At night. And danced, I think. I danced with them.”

Fatimatou’s hand stilled on his head. “Finn,” she said, and cleared her throat roughly. “Oh, sama doom. I’m so sorry.”

When Finn looked up at her, the lights in the kitchen glinted off her eyes. She pulled a tissue from her pocket and handed it to him. He wiped his face and blew his nose and stood and went to the kitchen and chucked it in the trash and braced his hands against the counter and tried to make his mind shut up again.

“Do you want to dance to it now?” she said.

Finn turned around.

“I can’t bring them back,” he said.

“I didn’t ask if you wanted to go back to the past,” Fatimatou said, very softly. “I asked if you wanted to dance.”

Finn stared at her for a long time. “No,” he said at last, hoarse. “Not right now. But—someday, maybe.”

“Well,” she said. “It’s here, whenever you want to play it.”  

He nodded. “Thank you,” he whispered, and closed his eyes. 

 

 

 

_May 2013 (21 years old)_

“You going to prom?” Jason carefully peeled off the bottom crusts of his bread and took a huge bite of his sandwich.

“Are you kidding?” Finn grinned at him. “If it’s anything like that dance you all dragged me to last month, I will definitely be there.”

“Taking anyone?” Jason asked.

Finn cocked his head at him. “I mean, I’m not dating anyone, so…”

Sasha dismissed this with a flick of her fingers. “That’s half the point of prom! It’s a chance to ask out the person you’ve been waiting to.”

“Oh.” Finn considered this, then shrugged. “Well, I might have asked Kaila out a month or two ago, but after the Africa incident—” Hannah snickered— “I will stick to people who at least know that Africa is a continent, not a country. Because seriously.” Finn shook his head. “Are any of you going with someone?”

“Just asked Thea.” Jason grinned into his sandwich.

“And?” Claire cocked her head.

Jason did a little dance in his seat.

Hannah laughed. “Then why aren’t you two sitting together now?”

“Please!” Jason held up a hand. “I’ve got this under control. You can’t go in too fast, you know? She’s going to giggle about it for another day or so, then I can swoop in and, you know. Drive her home. Or something like that.”

“Pick out a good make-out spot on the way to her house,” Sasha nodded. “I see how it is.”

Jason shrugged, biting back a grin. “When you got it, you got it. I don’t see you making any plans.”

“Actually.” Sasha beamed at him. “I just asked Nate on the way to calc. All systems are go.”

“And you’re going with Patrick?” Finn asked Hannah. She tucked her hair back behind her ear with a small smile and nodded.

“Is he even going to be out of the cast by then?” Sasha asked.

“Nah. But it’s okay. I don’t really like to dance, so we’ll be fine. A couple of slow dances, and then we’ll sit at the sidelines and laugh at the rest of you nutheads.”

“Which leaves you, Finnster.” Jason leveled a glare that would perhaps have been slightly more impressive if not for the smear of mayo on his chin.

Finn ducked his head to hide a smile as Claire silently pointed out the offending spot. “Like I said,” he shrugged. “I don’t know. There aren’t really any other girls I’m into here. Can I go if I’m not with anyone? Like Claire.”

“I’m going with Marcy!” Claire protested.

Finn cocked his head. “But she’s a girl.”

“Yeah?” Sasha’s lost her smile. “You got a problem with that?”

“No,” Finn said, but he was too slow—it had taken him months to get used to the idea that it wasn’t illegal here.

Sasha’s brows snapped shut. “Good. Anyone who has a problem with it can shut the fuck up or deal with us.” She glared at him, as though daring him to object.

“Huh,” Finn said. Even if it wasn’t illegal, the thought of someone actually feeling free to take the same gender to prom was—astounding. Students defending each other’s right to do so? Nothing short of incredible.  

“What?” Sasha folded her arms across her chest.

Claire shook her head at Sasha. “Leave him alone, it’s okay. Everyone’s entitled to their—”

“It’s okay?” Finn asked. “Really? Girls and girls. I mean, I know it’s legal, I mean, like—at the prom. People do that?”

“Yup.” Sasha was still glaring at him. “Or guys and guys. Whatever.”

“Huh,” Finn said again. “But none of the rest of you are going that way. You picked the other gender.”

“I mean, I’m straight, more or less, and so is Jason, as far as I know—”

“Probably,” Jason confirmed.

“—so I’m not really interested in going with a girl.”

“What do you mean?” Finn asked, brow furrowed. “Why not?”

Sasha shrugged. “I don’t know. I mean, most people are attracted to the opposite gender. And some people are attracted to the same gender. Or to both, or all, or none, or whatever. All of it’s ok here.”

“Huh,” Finn said. The idea sounded very different in Sasha’s mouth than it had in the websites he’d looked at to figure all of this out. As though it weren’t a thing other people did, it was—it could be—something he did, too.

He could go to prom with a guy, and it could be okay, easy, normal.

Finn balled up his banana peel, stretched to his feet, and walked off across the cafeteria to throw it away. On his way back, he stopped at the track team’s table to chat with them for a few minutes.

When he returned to his seat, Sasha scowled at him again. “So? ‘Huh’ is all you’ve got? ‘Huh?’”

“Huh,” Finn confirmed. “Also, Sean just said he’d go to the prom with me.”

 

 

 

“So.” Fatimatou grinned up at him. “Prom’s approaching, no? Are your friends starting to talk about it?”

“Oh, yeah. We talked about it a couple of days ago. I’m going with Sean.”

Fatimatou rolled closer. Finn stared at her. That’s not a good expression. No. Nope. Nope, that’s really not a good—

“Oh no.” He swallowed. “It was a prank. They told me it was okay. Oh no. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry! I’ll—tell him—oh, no. He must have been in on it too. Oh, no, no, no.” Finn ran both hands over his head, trying to pull in a full breath.

“Finn.”

He covered his face with his hands. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. I know it’s not okay. I—”

_“Finn.”_

He peered out from between his fingers.

She sighed. “Look.” She folded and refolded the same shirt between her hands. “Growing up, I did not think it was okay. Coming here, also. But.” She stared down at the shirt, smoothed out a crease. “The people of this country have decided that it is legal. Okay. Good, even. I—” She shook her head. “The more I think about it, the more confused I am. There are so many worse things a person can do, you know? If the only way for you to find love is with the same gender—”

“But I also like girls!” Finn whirled away, linked his hands behind his neck. “I just don’t really like any of the girls in the high school now. I thought—I don’t know, we never talked about it. Back there. I just thought everyone felt the same. Attracted to both genders. But only have sex with and marry the opposite gender. Because that’s—that’s what you do. But it’s ok here, I keep seeing that it is. And they said it was okay.”

“It _is_ ok here,” Fatimatou said, very soft. “In many places. I have a granddaughter here who plans to marry a woman. Our family—we argued over it for a long time. Better for her to lie about how she feels and marry a man she cannot love? To have an unhappy marriage? Many of them do not speak to her anymore. But I—” Fatimatou shrugged. “I, and some of the rest of my family, decided that the connections between our family have to be stronger than anything else. We already have so few, here in the US. It would be a tragedy to lose one who is still alive.”

Finn nodded.

“So.” Fatimatou placed both hands atop the shirt in her lap and stared down at them. “You should do what you need to do. It will take me some time to get used to it. But I will. And I promise you—” She reached out to Finn. He took her hand, heart pounding in his temples. “I will still love you. And I’m so glad you found someone you like.”

“Thank you,” Finn whispered. _“Thank_ you.”

 

 

 

_September 2013 (21 years old)_

Once he finally finished his essay, Finn packed up his books, logged out of the library computer, and stepped out into the close-hugging humid night. The walk down to his dorm was badly lit, but quiet. He approached the gym, breathed in the sharp smell of chlorine, and heard a sudden thump, grunt, and the unmistakable sounds of struggle.

He ran forward, rounded the corner of the gym, and saw a girl, all the way at the base of the hill, struggling in the chokehold of an assailant as another sliced her purse off her shoulder. Finn sprinted down the hill—and stumbled to a halt as the girl kicked one in the groin, whirled to slam the other in the side of the head with her purse, and knocked them both down with a frenzy of hard blows. When the attackers were both curled on the ground, groaning, she grabbed her purse back, raced off down the hill, and disappeared beneath the close overhang of a stand of trees.

Finn stood there for a moment, paralyzed with indecision—go make sure she was okay, or get these attackers to justice? Both. He yanked out his phone, dialed campus safety on the way to the dorms, and described the assailants and the basics of the attack as he ran down to the dorms. The officer on duty promised to search for them just as Finn reached the cluster of freshman dorms and spotted the girl disappearing into one.

Finn cut the call off, followed her inside—and slammed to the ground in the entryway, flat on his back. The pain stole his breath and pinned him to the floor like the day he was first stabbed. She crouched over him, poised to attack.

“Why the fuck are you following me?” she hissed. She had a British accent like a few of the aid workers in the camp, but not nearly as posh.

Finn raised his hands in surrender, trying to breathe around the pain. “I’m sorry. I saw the attack. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

She blinked at him. “Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

Finn stared at her. “Because you nearly got mugged.”

“None of your business.”

“No, it’s not,” Finn agreed gently. “But I thought you might be upset. Or scared.”

Her face closed off. “Well, I’m not. And my pants are not for sale, thanks, so get the fuck out and don’t come back.”

“All right,” Finn said, still calm. “I also wanted to let you know that I called campus safety. They’re going to find the ones who did it and possibly arrest them, if they can get the security footage. So you don’t have to worry about them coming after you again.”

Her blank stare was remarkably disconcerting. “What’s your game here?”

“I’d rather not see people get mugged or assaulted,” Finn said. He eased up, one hand on his back in a vain attempt to stave off the pain.

Her brow tightens. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, it’s old.” He stretched cautiously, checking to see if his back had been damaged any further. “But I’d appreciate it if you’d stop and think before you go knocking people—” He stopped. “There’s a group,” he said instead. “For students with PTSD. Completely confidential. And free. Thursdays at 7:30, in the counseling center. They’re really nice.”

She stared at him in disbelief. “What are you, the shrink fairy? What the hell does that have to do with—”

“You didn’t get reflexes like that in a self-defense class.”

“Get out of here,” she bit out. She backed off a step to let him stand up, shoulders tense, watching him for any hint of attack.

Finn shifted one last time to make sure he wouldn't end up flat on his back again when he tried to stand, then slowly levered to his feet. “They’re good reflexes,” he said. “I’m glad they kept you safe tonight.”

She stared at him. Her brow furrowed, then folded into a glower. “Out,” she growled.

He nodded at her. “Good night.” The doors clacked shut behind him. The night wrapped around his shoulders, not nearly as comforting as a hug.

 

 

 

Finn saw her on campus sometimes, lugging a patched and faded messenger bag nearly as large as she was. In the gym, on the track, in the dining hall, in the library. He never looked too closely. When their eyes met across the library tables one night, she glared at him.

He might possibly have a slight crush on her. Or he might possibly want to wrap her up in blankets and keep her safe so she never had to fight off another attacker. Or he might possibly want to watch her take down the entire football, rugby, and wrestling teams, one by one. She could do it, he was sure.

 

 

 

_October 2013_

One night, unable to sleep, Finn went down to the track for a midnight run. She was there, sprinting and running in brutal intervals. He warmed up slowly, stretched out his back, and settled into for a long run beneath the stars. She flew past him without a backward glance.

Many laps later, she finally slowed to a cool-down pace, still hugging the inside of the track. Finn stayed on the outer lane, enjoying the crisp fall air. Two laps more, and then she left—no, he realized, as he rounded the curve again. She was sitting on the bleachers, knees pulled to her chest, looking up at the stars. He slowed as he approached, then stopped, several meters away.

She looked at him.

“It’s a nice night, isn’t it,” Finn said. And okay, there were probably snazzier things he could have said then, but it would have to do.

“It’s my birthday,” she said.

He sat down on the track and leaned back on his hands, ignoring the sharp rubber prickles beneath his palms. “Happy birthday,” he said. “Did you celebrate?”

She stared out across the dimly lit track. “My friend bought a cake mix at the bookstore and made it in the microwave. And then some of my hallmates taped a bunch of balloons around the common room and sang to me tonight.”

“Nice.”

“It was.” She smiled to herself, just a little. It was the first time he’d seen her smile, and he was captivated. “It was really nice,” she said again, very quiet—and Finn understood.

He took a deep breath. “First time I celebrated my birthday,” he mused. Her sharp eyes flicked to his. “I was in high school. My mom—foster mom—gave me a set of novels and made me my favorite meal. Bunch of my friends sang to me in the cafeteria. I was utterly mortified. But—in a good way. I guess.”

She smiled at that. “They sound like good friends.”

“They are,” Finn nodded. “Yours sound nice, too.”

“They are.” The track lights glinted off her dark hair, tied up in an intricate arrangement of three tight buns, as she stared up at the stars. “I like birthdays,” she said.

Finn followed her gaze, squinting beyond the floodlights into the night. “Me too.”

“You’re taking calc,” she said.

He blinked at the non-sequitur. “Yeah. I am. Are you in the course too? It’s big, but I would have thought I’d have seen—”

“I’m in the other section, on Mondays and Wednesdays.”

“Oh.”

“I’ve been doing well so far,” she said, then fell silent.

“So have I,” Finn offered at last, when the silence stretched too long to be comfortable.

“Good.” She nodded at him, satisfied. “But this week’s problem set—”

“Is making you slam your head on your desk and regret all of your life choices?”

“Oh, no!” she laughed. “You too?”

She was _beautiful_ when she laughed. Finn’s heart stopped, then started again. “Yeah,” he managed.

“Damn it,” she sighed. “I was going to ask if you wanted to study together.”

“I—I’d love to,” he said, utterly nonplussed. “Don’t know how much help I’ll be on this week’s set, but—”

“But two heads are better than one.”

“I hope so.” Finn grinned at her.

“Good. Tomorrow night—” she checked her watch— “ok, it’s already tomorrow, so tonight, I guess. At seven. In the library, meet by the statue.”

“Sounds good.”

“It’s not a date,” she growled. “I’m not interested.”

Finn raised his hands. “Got that.” He hesitated, then added, “I’m sorry, though—I never got your name.”

She squinted at him. “Rey,” she said at last. “I’m Rey.”

He nodded at her. “Nice to meet you, Rey. I’m Finn.”

Rey nodded back, then jumped down from the bleachers, still several careful feet away. “Good night.”

“Good night.” Finn smiled at her. Before he finished the words, she was gone.

He lay back on the track, tucked his arms beneath his head, and looked up at the stars. The moon was above them now—a glimmering crescent like a flash of teeth, surrounded by a scatter of stars, twinkling like candles. He stared up at it, made a wish, and blew all of the candles out.


	5. i found something

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for brief flashback, implied nightmares.
> 
> Glossary: 
> 
> [mafé](http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=4973142) = Senegalese meat, tomato, and peanut butter stew
> 
> [moqueca](http://kalamu.com/neogriot/2014/06/07/food-the-african-origins-of-brazilian-cuisine/) = Afro-Brazilian seafood stew
> 
> Special thanks to telekinetic_hedgehog for joining me for lunch at a Nigerian restaurant in my city!

_September 2014_

Finn pored through the aisles of Onyefulu’s Variety Store the moment he stumbled across it in one of the immigrant neighborhoods of the city. He wasn’t really sure what he was looking for, but _fuck_ it was weird to see the familiar labels. Weirder still to remember that last time he'd seen them, he'd barely been able to read the labels. To walk down aisle after aisle crowded with products from home and quickly  _skim_ the labels was a delight he'd never really imagined. He sniffed the brightly packaged soap—

“Excuse me? Hey—sir? Chètú, mazi?”

“What?” Finn blinked at the storeowner. What had he said his name was? Osi—no, Ozichi.

“Are you all right?” Ozichi switched back to English. ”You were just standing there.”

“I’m,” Finn said, then stopped.

“Come sit down, okay?” Ozichi guided Finn to the back room and pushed him into a plastic chair. Finn leaned his head on his knees and closed his eyes. “Here, drink something, now. It’s hot out there.”

Finn accepted the bottle of water and gulped half of it down. He looked at the unassuming green-labeled bar of Delta soap in his hand, brought it close with a shaking hand, closed his eyes, and smelled it again.

“My mother used that soap,” Finn said, then realized what he’d said and switched back to English. “My mother—”

“Got you the first time,” Ozichi said in Igbo-accented Yoruba. “And I wouldn’t be surprised. Just about everyone uses Delta, if they can afford it.”

“We didn’t,” Finn said. “Don’t even know what we used. Didn’t have a label.”

Ozichi frowned down at him, then pulled up another chair and sat across from him in the small storeroom. The fluorescent light glinted on the crisp lapels of his shirt, turned his scalp neon yellow. “You didn’t use your mom’s soap,” he said.

“No,” Finn said.

“You weren’t a—”

“I was,” Finn said. “I’m sorry.”

Ozichi was silent for a long time. “Kid,” he said at last. He reached forward, hesitated, and put a hand on Finn’s shoulder. _“I’m_ sorry.”

“Well.” Finn smelled the soap again and swallowed hard. “Thank you.”

They sat in silence for a long time. The door chimed distantly. Ozichi’s daughter called out to the new customer in brightly lilting Igbo, then laughed with the customer over something. They squeezed past the open door to the storeroom, looked curiously in at Finn and Ozichi, and rummaged together in the back of the shop for something that neither could talk about without cracking up into uproarious laughter.

“You’re going to take that soap for free, and whatever else you want, and you’re going to come back when you need to remember something else,” Ozichi said.

“I—”

“Don’t argue with me.”

Finn looked up at him.

“And I’m putting in a new order in the next few days, so—” Ozichi stretched to his feet with a groan. “If there’s anything in particular that you miss, let me know. I’ll see if I can find it anywhere.” He reached down to give Finn a hand up.

“Thank you.” Finn took Ozichi’s hand and stood, still a little unsteady. He breathed in the smell of the soap again and chased after a memory that was already dissolving into translucent suds. When he opened his eyes again, Ozichi was watching him with a small smile.

“Why do you think I started this store?” Ozichi asked, picking his way out of the crowded storeroom. “Everyone misses something.”

Finn looked down at the bar of soap in his hand. “Well,” he said, and zipped his jacket against the bluster of the street. “I found something. So.” He looked up at Ozichi with a smile that felt like it would crack his face in two. “Thank you.”

When he slipped out of the store and onto the street, the wind whipped at his eyes so hard they started to water.

 

 

 

_October 2014_

As the door clanged shut behind him with a cheery _ding,_ Finn’s eyes slowly adjusted from the blinding noonday sun to the cozy fluorescence of the restaurant. That was the flag, on the far wall: bold bands of bright green, set apart by one band of white. The air smelled like childhood, like fear, like relief _._ He couldn't help the disbelieving, buoyant grin that rose in him.

“You can sit anywhere.”

Finn blinked.

The waiter waved a hand at the restaurant, half-full with a weekday early lunch crowd. “Looking for a table for two, or—”

“Just one, please.” Finn sat at the nearest table, setting his back to the wall. The waiter handed him a laminated menu and hurried off to the kitchen to get someone else’s order. A pair of Korean college students sat at the table next to him, discussing a page of complicated notes. Across the room, a tired businessman—maybe Côte d’Ivoirian, if Finn hadn’t entirely lost his touch after years of being surrounded by white people—put his phone down and tucked into his lunch. In the corner, a family crowded around the big table, laughing at something the youngest child had just done. Even from across the room, Finn could hear the familiar patterns of Yoruba, could see it in the way their mouths fold around words and laughter.

“What can I get you?”

Finn jolted and looked up at the waiter. “Uh,” he said.

“You all right, man?”

“Yeah—yeah, sorry, I’m just—distracted, I don’t know. Um. Can I get iyan and egusi soup?”

“Yeah, sure.” The waiter collected his menu and disappeared. Finn stretched back in his seat and tried not to stare at the family. This place was so full of home it _hurt._ He was starving for it, nauseated by it.

He got up and washed his hands at the little sink tucked away in the crook of the wall. On his way back to his seat, he watched at the family as surreptitiously as he could. The oldest son gave one of his plantains to one of the girls, then stuck his tongue out at her. She laughed at him, then stuffed the plantain slice into her mouth. She looked a little bit like one of the laundresses at the camp.

Finn fell back into his seat and put his head in his hands.

 

 **12:42pm Rey:** How is it??? I expect pictures! And leftovers!

 **12:43pm Finn:** It’s weird

 **12:45pm Rey:** Do you want backup?

 **12:46pm Finn:** Nah you don’t have time

Anyway I can do this

Ok stand by here’s the food

There’s your picture. What do you think?

 **12:49pm Rey:** I don’t really know what I’m looking at but I expect a full tasting menu when you get home

 **12:50pm Finn:** Will do.

 **12:51pm Rey:** You got this, peanut.

 

Finn stared at his phone, then slid it into his pocket to keep it close. He looked around the room—posters about sending money to Nigeria, photos of the Lagos skyline, carved relief of a mother with a baby on her back. In the corner of the restaurant, the mother wiped a bit of sauce off the child’s cheek, then turned back to say something to the rest of her children.

Finn looked down at his plate. Aromatic steam rose from the soup, far spicier than most of Fatimatou’s cooking. He unwrapped the foil-covered ball of pounded yam, pulled off a handful, and folded it over a mouthful of soup. The gun was heavy on his back. His side ached with an old wound that hadn’t quite healed properly yet. He rubbed the smooth patch on the barrel of the gun over and over, again and again.

Finn jumped as his phone buzzed in his pocket. It was a snapchat from Rey, posing with one completed problem set, a half-eaten pop tart, and that silly scrunched-up face that always cracked him up. He stared down at the photo and rubbed the smooth tabletop to ground himself. He was here. He was safe. He'd be all right.

 

 **1:24pm Finn** You’re crazy

And I love you

 **1:25pm Rey:** Karé said save some for her too

Want to go for a run this afternoon when you get back from center city?

 **1:26pm Finn:** I’d love to

Maybe you’ll even catch up to me this time

 **1:26pm Rey:** Ha

Ha ha ha

In your dreams, pal

I’ll be waiting at the end with towels and a waterbottle, okay?

 **1:27pm Finn:** Is that a challenge?

Oh, it is so on.

Winner cleans the bathroom

 **1:27pm Rey:** HA

HA HA HA

You're ridiculous

I <3 you peanut see you later bring your A game

 **1:28pm Finn:** <3 you too, crazy lady

 

Finn tucked his phone back into his pocket and looked back out at the restaurant. The youngest child cuddled in her father’s lap, fast asleep. The father of the family ruffled her braids, then smiled at his wife. Her eyes flicked over their children, then back to his. She smiled back with a little quirk of her eyebrow, then took another neat handful of rice.

Finn pressed a ball of iyan between his fingers, scooped up some soup, and closed his eyes. His fellow soldiers cracked up over a long-running joke, teeth flashing in the light of the brush fire. The commander gave him a rare nod of approval for his performance in their latest shooting competition. The stars stretched overhead, limitless and brilliant.

His plate was empty, streaked with the last few bits of sauce. Finn blinked back into reality. The family was gone, replaced by a pair of teenagers on a date. Igbo, maybe—Finn caught fragments of words across the room. One of the cooks walked out of the kitchen, sat at a chair with a sigh, and adjusted her head tie.

Finn cautiously walked up to her. “Excuse me, ma’am. Do you, um. Would you ever be willing to offer lessons in cooking? Or do you know someone who does? I’d like to learn.”

She looked him up and down, then nodded at the seat across from her. “Sit,” she said in Yoruba. “You’re the one who was taken?”

“I—” Finn stared at her, then slid heavily into the chair. “How—”

She laughed. “Small city. And everyone shops at Onyefulu’s.” She held his eyes for a moment, probing for something. “I’m cooking for my niece’s wedding this week, and helping her get ready. But next week, maybe…before we open…” She nodded. “Come here at six o’clock in the morning, next Saturday. I’ll start teaching you the basics. Maybe I’ll bring my mother, too. She’s a good teacher—much more patient than I am.” She held out her hand. “I’m Ayo. Ayokunle Olajumoke.”

“Finn,” he returned automatically, then added: “Fiyinfoluwa Akindele.”

She echoed his name with perfect intonation. He blinked at her. It had been seven years since he heard someone pronounce his name properly. “Thank you,” he said. For once, the words felt right in his mouth. “Thank you, thank you, _thank_ you.”

 

 

 

_January 2015_

Finn rinsed his mouth for the tenth time, spat, and washed his hands with meticulous care, avoiding the look of his face in the mirror. He didn’t need to see dark circles to feel them. He eased the bathroom door open, hoping the creak wouldn't carry all the way down the hall to their bedroom—and jumped back, hand on his heart, when his eyes adjusted to the dark hallway enough to see her.

Rey wasn’t in their room, fast asleep in her narrow bed. She was sitting in the hallway, legs stretched out on the floor, head tipped back against the wall. Ever the light sleeper, she startled awake the moment she hears the door.

“Here,” she rasped. She lifted a plate off of two mugs by her side and handed one to him, still steaming.

Finn looked down at her.

“Or not,” she shrugged. “Did you want to just go back to sleep?”

At that, he snorted, took the mug from her, and settled down against the opposite wall.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Rey asked.

Finn shook his head. Rey sipped her cocoa. Finn stared down at his. A minor flotilla of half-melted mini marshmallows swirled around the rim of his mug. “You don’t have to do this,” Finn rasped at last.

Rey looked at him. She wore her hair tied up even to bed, just in case: one tightly wound knob atop her head. “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again, if you—”

“No, no, it’s okay. It’s—” Finn stopped. “It’s nice,” he said quietly. “It’s really nice. Thank you. It’s just—you don’t have to, you know. I’ll be okay.”

Rey took a long swallow of her cocoa. “There’s a difference,” she said, “between ok and good.”

“There is,” Finn said slowly. He squinted at her in the dark hallway, considering.

Rey’s mouth twitched toward a smile. “I may have gone to the counseling center.”

“Congratulations.” Finn flicked her foot with his free hand.

She buried a grin in her mug. “Thanks,” she muttered.

“Thank _you,”_ Finn returned. “You really don’t have to do this. I hope you’re getting enough sleep. But—thank you. It—” He stopped. Took a careful sip of his cocoa. ”It means a lot to me,” he murmured at last.

“You’re welcome.” Rey drained the last of her cocoa and set her mug down with a satisfied sigh. “Anytime.” Her face was gray and grainy in the night, lit only by the echo of the streetlight through the living room window. But when she beamed at him, Finn grinned back, certain that her smile was incandescent.

 

 

 

_May 2015 (23 years old)_

It wasn’t always cocoa. One night Finn made a playlist of the best kitten videos he could find and watched her face turn from nightmare-terrified to dour to twitching against a smile to cracking up and falling against his shoulder, alight with laughter. Another night Rey laid his running shorts and shoes out right where he'd trip over them as he came out of the bathroom. He ducked back in to put them on, then came out to find her already warming up beside the door, light-up vest glowing slightly in the dark, holding out another vest for him. “Let’s go,” she said, and they did.

Other times he sat up with her in silence until she slid back beneath the covers of her narrow bed, ready to go back to sleep. Some nights she just gave him a hug and went back to bed. They were both light enough sleepers that they were awake at the first muffled shout. It was bad for their sleep, probably, to wake at each others’ nightmares—but it was good for their friendship, and good for the one who was trying to stop shaking. And month by month, they slept more soundly.

Finn jolted awake one morning, slid the alarm on his phone to _off,_ and sat up. Rey padded into their room, hair still turbaned up in a towel, t-shirt and jeans hitched up haphazardly on the curving angles of her body. She yanked the closet open and started digging on her shelf for a spare hairtie and bobby pins. “Morning,” she mumbled.

“Good morning,” Finn said, slow and thoughtful.

Rey turned and stared at him, brow folded. “What?”

“Do you want to study together on the quad today?” Finn asked.

Rey yawned so wide her face nearly cracked open. “Raining?” She finally found an elastic and a handful of bobby pins, flipped upside-down, and yanked her hair into submission

“I don’t know. I hope not.” Finn stretched carefully, as he always did, making sure his back wouldn't seize on him when he stood. “It’s just that—I dreamt I was lying on the grass in a beautiful park, and it was warm and sunny, and I was lying next to this person I really liked, and he really liked me. And it was just—peaceful. I was really happy.” He slid out from under the covers and stretched again, high enough to make the hem of his t-shirt ride above the waistband of his sweatpants.

Rey didn’t really people until after breakfast, so for a long moment, she just squinted at him from across the tiny room. At last she shoved the last pin into place, crossed to his bed, and hugged him—the kind of full-body, full-heart hugs she only ever gave to him or Karé. Finn closed his eyes and held on tight.

She let go at last and headed back to the closet. “Shower’s yours,” she mumbled.

“Thanks.” Finn grinned at her retreating back. “It’s weird, isn’t it?”

“Very.” Her voice came back to him muffled from where she knelt on the floor by the closet, tying up her boots. “If you start having happy dreams all the time, I may get worried.”

“That’s fair,” Finn nodded. “But hey, if I figure it out, I’ll tell you the secret, okay? You’ll have good dreams too, someday.”

Rey yanked on her laces one last time and stood. “I’ll meet you on the quad after mechanics lab,” she said.

“All right.” Finn scrubbed a hand through his hair and stretched again.

Rey shoved one last textbook into her bag. “Ok, fine,” she muttered in a rush. “Maybe I will someday, who knows, stop looking at me like that, I have to get to class, goodbye.”

Finn laughed. “I’ll bring cookies to the quad, okay? Good study food.”

Rey hoisted her giant patched-up messenger bag onto her shoulder and turned to leave. “My good dreams,” she said loftily, “will _always_ have cookies in them.”

“Now _that’s_ the spirit.” Finn grinned at her, then headed down the hall to their bathroom, whistling his parents’ song.

 

 

 

Finn finished reviewing his notes for the umpteenth time, closed his notebook, lay back on the grass, and flung an arm over his face to shade his eyes from the bright sunshine. He lost track of time for a few minutes, drifting between the warm grass and the familiar patter of Rey’s voice as she worked with Karé on the last problem in their set.

“There!” Rey high-fived Karé after they finally figured out the answer. “If Erskine doesn’t agree on this one, I will fight him.”

“We don’t fight professors, peanut,” Finn mumbled.

“True.” Karé stuffed her books into her bag and stretched out beside Rey. “Although I think he would be so fascinated by the potential for harnessing a wrestling match to power a fuel cell, he wouldn’t even notice the fact that you had punched him.”

“That’s because you’ve never been punched by Rey,” Finn smirked. “Trust me, he’d notice.”

Rey giggled.

Finn propped his head up on his elbow, slightly concerned. “Uh,” he said. “Rey.”

“Should we tell him?” Karé cocked an eyebrow at Rey.

“Oh god,” Finn groaned. “Rey, _behave—”_

“Did you know that Karé does capoeira?” Rey grinned. “She’s been teaching me. It’s fun. I know at least seventeen new ways to kick someone's ass now. I’ve been teaching her hand-to-hand in return. She’s good. Really good.” Rey propped her feet up on Finn’s stomach.

“Oh, goody,” Finn sighed. “You definitely need to learn better self-defense skills. Yours suck.”

“You’re not really thinking this through, are you?” Rey laughed. “Consider the position of my feet relative to your balls right now.”

“Consider the position of my hands,” Finn yawned, “relative to your feet.” He wiggled his fingers towards the bottoms of Rey's feet, threatening to tickle her.

“Don’t you even think about it.” Rey stuck out her tongue at him.

“Children, children.” Karé poked Rey’s thigh. “Be nice. Do that thing you did with my hair the other day, those spiral bun-things. I liked that."

“Fine,” Rey grumbled. “Twist my arm.” She undid the elastic that held Karé’s vivid purple braids back from her face and began to lay them out in a halo around Karé’s head. "Oh! Speaking of twisting! Do you still want to teach me how to twist locs, the next time you do your hair? 

“Finn, would you trust my crazy girlfriend to do my hair?”

Finn considered this for a moment. “You know, I think I actually would. She is crazy, but she’s very serious about hair. And your hair’s short, anyway, once you take the braids off. So if she screws it up, you could fix it pretty easily.”

Karé thought this over, then nodded. “I’m pretty sure she’ll figure out a fantastic new device that somehow does it all for you. Just, you know, set it on your head and let it run.”

Finn winced. “Are you volunteering to be the guinea pig? I’d be a little worried about that.”

“You have no faith in me!” Rey nudged his ribs. “Just because the—”

“Bike-powered toaster caught on fire?” Karé finished for her. “Yeah. Exactly. You do that to my hair and I will capoeira your lovely ass out the window. So, you know. Keep that in mind.”

“I would never hurt your hair! I would be so careful! I'd test it ten thousand times on my own head first! But if I don’t get the Nobel Prize because you lot stifled my dreams—”

Finn patted her feet. “Can’t get any prizes if you set your lab on fire, peanut.”

 _“Thank_ you.” Karé raised her hand to give Finn an air high-five. “See, this is why I like you. You’re the only sensible one around here.”

Finn matched Karé’s air five, then flopped his arm over his eyes again. “Promise me you won’t let Rey take charge of your fireworks when she visits your family for the Fourth of July?”

“Oh, hell no,” Karé agreed, horrified. “Our house would go up in flames. Nah, we’re going to have a nice long chat about pyrotechnics, and the dangers thereof, and then we’re going to light them _together_.”

“You're no fun.” Rey poked Karé’s arm.

“I know, you beautiful nutcase. But I’d rather spend the weekend eating cookies on the roof with you—these are great, by the way, thanks, Finn—and watching fireworks than waiting in the ER. And anyway, I only said we’re going to light them _together._ I’m looking forward to your crazy concoctions. It’s just that I’m also really looking forward to cuddling with you on my normal-sized bed, rather than your tiny-ass apartment bed or my tinier-ass dorm bed. And we can’t do that if you set the place on fire.”

“Fine,” Rey grumbled. “I’ll be good.” She leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to Karé’s forehead. “If only because I’ve been looking forward to that cuddling too.”

“Oh, speaking of which—” Finn squinted up at Rey again. “Fatimatou just texted me this afternoon that she got an air mattress, so we can thumb wrestle over that and the couch when you come visit after finals are over. I mean, you could also come visit later in the summer—she said Marina’s aunt will take over as her guardian soon, so my old room will be free again until she gets another foster kid.”

“You know I don’t care what I sleep on.”

“And she bought meat, so…”

“Mafé.” Rey drummed her feet on Finn’s abs. “Tell me she’s going to make mafé. Please please please—”

“You know, it’s like you don’t even care about my company, or Fatimatou’s—”

“I love your company! But I get plenty of it here. I live with you, you strange peanut.” Rey picked a trio of Karé’s braids and focused on braiding them together into a larger braid. “And I really like Fatimatou,” she mumbled, which was Rey-speak for _please oh please I love her so much and I wish she were my mother._

Finn knew the feeling. He twirled his pen in his fingers and rubbed his thumb over the smooth grip. “So you’re coming, this weekend? Burn your notes and celebrate the end of finals?”

“Damn right.”

“Karé, you want to come too? At least for dinner?”

“My grandmother’s in town this weekend, sorry. Maybe later this summer? I’d love to meet her. She sounds super cool.”

“Oh, the trials of having a large family,” Rey intoned. “You’ll have to miss out mafé, you poor dear. But maybe we can bring some leftovers, if there are any?"

“Mmm, now you're talking," Karé grinned. "I'll bring some moqueca if I can, since you liked that so much last time you came over. can have a picnic on the quad on Monday, if it’s nice? All three of us.”

“Definitely! Finn, you’re coming?”

“I’d love to! Thank you.”

“A plan.” Karé nodded seriously. “This is good. This is very good. The weather will hold and it will be beautiful.”

“Damn right.” Rey curled a few of Karé’s braids into a spiral over her temple and pinned it in place with the bobby pins she must keep under her sleeves along with her knives, because where the hell else did she keep pulling them from?

Karé was singing something low under her breath, something that sounded suspiciously like the latest Taylor Swift single. Finn would have to tease her for it later.

Rey giggled as Karé whispered something up to her. Her feet formed a steady pressure on Finn’s stomach.

Finn closed his eyes and set the pen down by his side, fingers as quiet as his heartbeat. The sun shone down on his face—campfire-hot, Sahel-bright. He flung his arm over his face and took a deep breath. The air smelled like engine grease, coconut oil, spring-green grass, rain.

Finn fell asleep, safe and warm, surrounded by his family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to get a notification when I start posting the next fic, subscribe to the series!

**Author's Note:**

> Hugs always available in the comments! <3


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